I watched The Perks of Being a Wallflower last weekend and it was great and it made me both happy and sad. I related to Charlie, the main character and an outcast of sorts. I could not relate to the Charlie who finally found a place he belonged. But good for him.
I just wondered if there was a story out there about a boy who never found his place. Where was the tale of the guy who sat at the lunch room table by himself? Where's the book about the boy who reached the end and found nothing was resolved? Stories like that don't exist because people don't want a depressing ending. They need to have hope for the boy because they are the boy and if the boy doesn't make a connection, they fear they won't either and no one wants to consider that could be a reality for them.
So we set him up with some good friends and a crush and he gets kissed and holds hands under the stars and it's book perfect. And we feel both happy and sad because we don't have that but the boy is us and so if he finds it, so will we.
But some people know better.
In the movie (and book), Charlie writes letters to someone, chronicling a year in his life, but we are never told who he writes. And it made me want to write letters to anonymous people, too. What if I selected an address out of the phone book and wrote to this stranger, told him or her what was going on in my life? What if I sent several strangers these kinds of letters? What if I followed up every month or two? "Hi, it's me again. This is what has happened since the last time I wrote you." But I'd keep myself anonymous as well. A letter written from the heart and sent to one stranger from another.
Of course, it could be borderline creepy.
I think there's something kind of romantic and beautiful about reaching out to a complete stranger, making an intimate connection, sharing personal struggles and triumphs through a filter of anonymity. I like the juxtaposition and the...well, borderline creepiness of it, to be honest. I just know if someone sent me a random anonymous letter that let me glimpse into their life, I'd be fascinated. Well, it was a good life with good writing, of course. I don't need anyone sending me their school schedule or grocery list.
Oh, and I listened to the author/director commentary after I watched the movie and it was almost better than the movie. He delves deeper into the book and the movie and the characters and how he felt about making the movie and writing the book and all the feels he tried to capture and it was just nice and warm and beautiful and I recommend it.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Friday, March 1, 2013
Monday, February 25, 2013
book notes #13: almost there
Last night, I finished up the second edit of my book. Let me just say again how surprised I was at how much I could accomplish doing a little bit every day. I've made more progress in the past two months than I've made in the last 5 or 6. And that's just because I kept going, didn't take these week-long or month-long breaks.
Now, the plan is to work (every day) on rewriting the book, including all the changes. Then get a few people to read it just to tell me if it's worth being a book and then, depending on how I feel about the possibility of the book being successful and if I can afford it, I might hire a professional editor. I'll also need to buy an ISBN if I self-publish or if I decide to go the traditional route, I'll start sending out query letters.
With this lucky 13th update, I think I'm going to stop writing about writing the book. I've written about it for approximately 4 years now and it's gotten embarrassing. I've done all this smack talk about it and have built it up to be something grand like it will be this huge, life-changing project when really it's just a collection of all my whiny OD entries. If you've read one of them, then you've already read my book.
I also ran across this quote by author Isaac Marion that I think is appropriate and good timing regarding my decision to stay mum from now on:
Making progress every day. And I won't stop until I have a book in my hands. Even if I have to self-publish. Even if everyone hates it. Because it's my story and my therapy and I won't feel totally healed until I've totally finished it.
Now, the plan is to work (every day) on rewriting the book, including all the changes. Then get a few people to read it just to tell me if it's worth being a book and then, depending on how I feel about the possibility of the book being successful and if I can afford it, I might hire a professional editor. I'll also need to buy an ISBN if I self-publish or if I decide to go the traditional route, I'll start sending out query letters.
With this lucky 13th update, I think I'm going to stop writing about writing the book. I've written about it for approximately 4 years now and it's gotten embarrassing. I've done all this smack talk about it and have built it up to be something grand like it will be this huge, life-changing project when really it's just a collection of all my whiny OD entries. If you've read one of them, then you've already read my book.
I also ran across this quote by author Isaac Marion that I think is appropriate and good timing regarding my decision to stay mum from now on:
I think most people think of writing as a romantic dalliance that is fun to think about and impressive to talk about, but not a tangible reality that can actually be accomplished. Stop talking about it and do it. Don't waste that coal of desire on idle chatter, passing it around the room for everyone to admire. It will go out. Keep it hidden inside where it can burn and drive you and don't stop blowing on it until you've finished something.Whew, he called me out on that one, didn't he? I guess I have a lot more blowing to do. I just want to be done! And done I shall be, hopefully in the next two or three months.
Making progress every day. And I won't stop until I have a book in my hands. Even if I have to self-publish. Even if everyone hates it. Because it's my story and my therapy and I won't feel totally healed until I've totally finished it.
Saturday, February 9, 2013
book notes #12: cutting
As I previously mentioned, I have been hard at work on the second
edit of my book. I've made a lot of progress since the new year. I've
found doing a little bit at a time really does add up to large
chunks of accomplishment. It feels good to look at my Post-it bookmark
and see it slowly but surely (and consistently) moving toward the end of
my black binder.
Throughout the course of my book, I chronicle my encounters with hipsters, douchebags, bitches, sluts, tweakers, and kimono wearing opera singers. And I talked about how much they, and my classes, sucked. And to be fair, I talked about how much I sucked as well. You'd think after reading about that much sucking, the reader would come out a little more satisfied, eh?
I already had a suspicion I should reel back on the reaming of others but after going over the book again and again, all the constant complaining is unappetizing. So, I cut out a lot of the negativity in regards to other people and even myself. Don't get me wrong, there's still plenty of self-loathing (it wouldn't be Bran's book without one) but I have definitely scaled back on the bad attitude.
I've also cut out a lot of repetition. I used my blog as a reference while writing my book and the way I wrote my entries was I often gave a lot of back story and repeated information for new readers who had just come upon my blog, allowing them to catch up on the happenings before they dived into a new entry. But all that extra information doesn't translate well to a book because it's one reader, not a slew of people coming and going. Once I've established all the info to that one reader, there's no need to rehash any of it. Taking all that excess background noise has helped lighten the book considerably. Or at least I hope. I look through all my pages and most of the text is crossed out. I've got at least 89 pages to cut so getting rid of the repetition and cutting out all nonessential information and some of the negativity will help me do that.
I know I keep on droning on about this stupid project and hardly seem like I'm making progress but since it's my first book, I want it to be as good as it can be. Plus, I think all the time I've sat on it and waited and developed my writing skills has made the book stronger than it's ever been. That's not to say it's even good at this point but it's miles ahead of where it was a year ago so I don't feel bad about not rushing it into publication.
I do want to have it published this year, though.
Throughout the course of my book, I chronicle my encounters with hipsters, douchebags, bitches, sluts, tweakers, and kimono wearing opera singers. And I talked about how much they, and my classes, sucked. And to be fair, I talked about how much I sucked as well. You'd think after reading about that much sucking, the reader would come out a little more satisfied, eh?
I already had a suspicion I should reel back on the reaming of others but after going over the book again and again, all the constant complaining is unappetizing. So, I cut out a lot of the negativity in regards to other people and even myself. Don't get me wrong, there's still plenty of self-loathing (it wouldn't be Bran's book without one) but I have definitely scaled back on the bad attitude.
I've also cut out a lot of repetition. I used my blog as a reference while writing my book and the way I wrote my entries was I often gave a lot of back story and repeated information for new readers who had just come upon my blog, allowing them to catch up on the happenings before they dived into a new entry. But all that extra information doesn't translate well to a book because it's one reader, not a slew of people coming and going. Once I've established all the info to that one reader, there's no need to rehash any of it. Taking all that excess background noise has helped lighten the book considerably. Or at least I hope. I look through all my pages and most of the text is crossed out. I've got at least 89 pages to cut so getting rid of the repetition and cutting out all nonessential information and some of the negativity will help me do that.
I know I keep on droning on about this stupid project and hardly seem like I'm making progress but since it's my first book, I want it to be as good as it can be. Plus, I think all the time I've sat on it and waited and developed my writing skills has made the book stronger than it's ever been. That's not to say it's even good at this point but it's miles ahead of where it was a year ago so I don't feel bad about not rushing it into publication.
I do want to have it published this year, though.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
english is my second language
While at work a couple of months ago, my high school AP English teacher came in to shop. I walked up to her, excited to tell her about my newly acquired passion for writing. I haven't seen her since I graduated high school in 2004 and thought she'd be happy to hear about my venturing into her field of expertise.
After we caught up for a bit, I told her I liked to write now and she smiled a small smile and I told her I was even published in my college's literary journal. Not a huge deal but it was something. A good start. I might have made a misstep, however, because I said her class helped me enjoy writing and I thought my writing grew while under her guidance. I even bragged a bit and said I thought I wrote some pretty good essays during the times I had her in 11th and 12th grade.
She smiled again and mentioned my science teacher's daughter, who was one grade above me.
"Yes, I still remember her essays. She was one of the best students I ever had."
I didn't understand why she chose to compliment some random girl who had nothing to do with me but I pressed on and casually asked her if she would like to read some of my writing. She was retired by this time and so I thought not only would she have the time to read it but I hoped she'd be interested to see how I've grown as a writer.
Instead, she let out a sigh.
After we caught up for a bit, I told her I liked to write now and she smiled a small smile and I told her I was even published in my college's literary journal. Not a huge deal but it was something. A good start. I might have made a misstep, however, because I said her class helped me enjoy writing and I thought my writing grew while under her guidance. I even bragged a bit and said I thought I wrote some pretty good essays during the times I had her in 11th and 12th grade.
She smiled again and mentioned my science teacher's daughter, who was one grade above me.
"Yes, I still remember her essays. She was one of the best students I ever had."
I didn't understand why she chose to compliment some random girl who had nothing to do with me but I pressed on and casually asked her if she would like to read some of my writing. She was retired by this time and so I thought not only would she have the time to read it but I hoped she'd be interested to see how I've grown as a writer.
Instead, she let out a sigh.
Friday, January 18, 2013
simple moves
I have to say, I've been working out consistently and killing it during many of the sessions. Just like I did last year, I started out on January 1st and got up and put my trainers on and poured sweat and shredded muscle tissue.
It was actually a lot easier this time around, too, because I'm used to it now.
YES. I'M USED TO IT.
Prior to last year, working out was equivalent to eating dog crap but now it's no thang. It's weird but kind of awesome.
That's not to say I haven't had my bad days. I'll get up and go through the motions sometimes. And I used to feel bad about it because I feel like if I'm going to work out, it needs to count. I don't want to waste my time flailing around and not burning enough calories to matter. But I saw a quote on Facebook that said something like the only bad workout is one you didn't do. Made me feel better. Made me realize it does matter. It does count.
But, as I said, sometimes I really put 110% into the workout and by the end, I'm drenched in sweat and my body hurts and when I wake up in the morning in pain, I like it. I know it's actually not good for you to be sore like that but it makes me feel like I really did something so I welcome the pain.
It was actually a lot easier this time around, too, because I'm used to it now.
YES. I'M USED TO IT.
Prior to last year, working out was equivalent to eating dog crap but now it's no thang. It's weird but kind of awesome.
That's not to say I haven't had my bad days. I'll get up and go through the motions sometimes. And I used to feel bad about it because I feel like if I'm going to work out, it needs to count. I don't want to waste my time flailing around and not burning enough calories to matter. But I saw a quote on Facebook that said something like the only bad workout is one you didn't do. Made me feel better. Made me realize it does matter. It does count.
But, as I said, sometimes I really put 110% into the workout and by the end, I'm drenched in sweat and my body hurts and when I wake up in the morning in pain, I like it. I know it's actually not good for you to be sore like that but it makes me feel like I really did something so I welcome the pain.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
writing my second novel
The reason I participated in 2011, and one of the basic ideas behind National Novel Writing Month, is because I wanted to write a book. I had been working on my memoir for years and not making much progress and so having guidelines really helped me discipline myself. I had a goal and I managed to not only meet it but surpass it. It was a great feeling and once I knew I could actually write a book, I was satisfied. I think that's why I didn't do it the next year.
But this year, I decided to do it again. In one way, I wanted to see if the first book was just a fluke because I actually had no trouble writing it. Every day I sat down, the words flowed and it was a good feeling to know there was a story inside me. The other fun part was I had the flimsiest idea and yet I let the story tell itself and nothing ever felt forced or rushed. It just fell into place. I wanted to see if I could recapture that.
In some ways, I did. The idea for my first novel was a very basic idea that I had been floating around for maybe a year or two. My idea was that I would maybe write a short story based on the idea but I never went as far as to develop it into something. With this book, however, I had a good idea of how I wanted the story to go. I've had this concept in my head ever since 7th grade and so I've had many years to mull it over in my mind and kind of expand the story. It's a dumb story but yet it's one I've kept going back to and thinking about and so in a way, I feel I need to write it down and tell the story. Because of that, I thought it would be a good idea to use for National Novel Writing Month because neither the story or NaNoWriMo are too serious so they fit together.
The cool/weird/disheartening thing is the story isn't finished. The story in this book is finished but the story itself will continue. I don't know if I should wait until next November to write the next part or get started sooner. Well, I actually need to finish my memoir first and after that, then I can decide which project to tackle next.
It's been a long month and I'm glad I did it but I'm also glad it's over.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
book notes #11: collaboration
Holy crap. About a week ago, I finished the first edit of my book! One step closer to publication!
And it only took a couple of months, which is good considering it took several years just to write the first draft. I hope the second edit will go even faster. I've actually already started it and it's amazing and slightly disheartening how I keep finding things I want to change/cut out. I just keep wondering how I didn't catch all of that stuff the first time around. But no one ever does so it's okay.
I read a quote from an artist (who I can't remember) that said (I'm paraphrasing [this person really resonated with me as you can tell]), "You never really finish a piece. You just stop and move on to the next."
I can relate. I think I usually stop drawing or writing because I get tired of it. I create stuff as a means of expressing my thoughts and feelings and once I've properly poured out my heart, I'm over it. When I feel the content is there, I'm satisfied and don't get caught up in the technicalities of grammar and punctuation.
But then there are times when I want to make something really important and really good. I spend more time on it and polish it up and try to make it something that rises above my normal mediocre output. And with those special pieces, I'm never really done. I go back and tweak and perfect but it's never perfect. Eventually, I stand back and realize it's the best I can do, although it's not what I pictured in my head.
But I don't want to perfect something to the point I poison it, you know what I mean? It's like you say you're going to fix just one thing, a brush stroke or accidental charcoal smudge or improper syntax and then you see something else that needs to be fixed, a bum note or flat delivery of dialogue, and by the time you've ironed out all the little blemishes, the final product has become grossly altered and no longer represents your vision.
Maybe that happened to Picasso. He saw the nose on one of his portraits was leaning to the left so he fixed it, which threw off the eyes so he had to shift them around, which screwed up the mouth and by the time he finished swapping and sorting, he had created Cubism.
Anyway.
The next step is to get a couple of test readers to tell me if it's any good. I'll be looking for more of a content critique rather than grammar and punctuation. I just need to know if it's a good book!
I've gotten some positive feedback on my writing here and I appreciate it so much but the compliments are based on reading me a few times a week. As we all know by now, I'm quite a downer. I think reading my depressing ramblings spread out every couple of days or so is fine. People can handle that. But when I pour all that negativity into one long book, I am afraid it'll be off putting. So much cynicism. The reader will have to pop a couple of Zoloft to make it through chapter 5.
The other day, I was thinking about singer/songwriters. A lot of times, they collaborate with other more seasoned singer/songwriters to elevate their ideas into better products. It seems common with music but not so much with books, unless it's a real writer helping a celebrity put together a memoir or cash in on their fad success with books written about fictionalized versions of themselves. Sure, sometimes well known authors collaborate together but I see them doing it more for fun, rather than one writer helping the other create a better book.
Sometimes, I think it would be great if I had a writing partner. I've stated before that I don't have a ton of ideas but I do have a couple of small pieces of ideas stashed away collecting dust because I don't know where to take them or how to bring out the value of the ideas. I have lines of poetry and very few short story ideas but they stay shelved because I am not good enough to bring them to life. But I could if I had a collaborator.
I think it would be nice if I could have a fellow writer to bounce ideas off of, someone I can feel comfortable sharing possibly bad ideas with, someone I can be totally open with and trust they'll steer me in the right direction, tell me when something is good, tell me when something is cheesy, and turn that cheese into a masterpiece.
I think it would also help my productivity. I often stay stuck on a topic for days or even weeks (I even have ideas I've been sitting on for years) because I can't break through the wall of confusion/insecurity/cluelessness. But if I had someone to write with, they could help me break down the barriers that keep me from a good poem or awesome essay.
But the problem with collaborators is I often wonder how much input these singers and/or authors have in the creation of a song or book. Do they simply add a sentence or two or change up a couple of lyrics and slap their name on it and then say they wrote it? When I hear artists say they write their own songs, it often annoys me because their liner notes say they wrote the song along with three other people. How much credit can you really take when you are one of several? How much is yours and how much are you saying is yours?
I wouldn't want people thinking that about me. I don't want to be known for great art or writing if the majority of it wasn't mine. Heck, I'm not even sure I'd like it if I couldn't claim 100% ownership. What if someone came up to me one day and said a particular line in a poem or a particular piece of dialogue from one of my books completely changed their lives and it just so happens that one line or that one passage was the one line or passage I didn't write myself? I'd feel fake and icky. I don't want to feel that way.
But then again, it's all art and it's all about creating and putting it out there for others to enjoy and does it really matter who it comes from? As long as I'm always straight up and honest and say I am only one person in a team effort to create the best art possible, then what's wrong with that?
And really, does anyone ever create something 100% themselves? Even great writers who can write an entire book on their own have to report to editors who give suggestions.
Then there's the challenge of finding a collaborator. No one I know in real life likes to write so I'd probably have to joining some kind of writing group but I hesitate to do that because I'm not really a writer. I write but I just can't take myself seriously enough to go that deep into it, to step into a literary world where poetry pulses through people's veins and books are stored in their heads waiting for them to sit down and extract them. The only thing I've got floating around in my head is fart jokes and dessert recipes. I wouldn't want to be laughed out of a group.
I'll just have to settle with doing the best I can on my own for now, maybe getting help here and there and if I'm lucky enough, stumble upon someone who gets my writing and gets me so they can help me elevate it to the level I want it to be so I can feel like a real, accomplished writer.
And it only took a couple of months, which is good considering it took several years just to write the first draft. I hope the second edit will go even faster. I've actually already started it and it's amazing and slightly disheartening how I keep finding things I want to change/cut out. I just keep wondering how I didn't catch all of that stuff the first time around. But no one ever does so it's okay.
I read a quote from an artist (who I can't remember) that said (I'm paraphrasing [this person really resonated with me as you can tell]), "You never really finish a piece. You just stop and move on to the next."
I can relate. I think I usually stop drawing or writing because I get tired of it. I create stuff as a means of expressing my thoughts and feelings and once I've properly poured out my heart, I'm over it. When I feel the content is there, I'm satisfied and don't get caught up in the technicalities of grammar and punctuation.
But then there are times when I want to make something really important and really good. I spend more time on it and polish it up and try to make it something that rises above my normal mediocre output. And with those special pieces, I'm never really done. I go back and tweak and perfect but it's never perfect. Eventually, I stand back and realize it's the best I can do, although it's not what I pictured in my head.
But I don't want to perfect something to the point I poison it, you know what I mean? It's like you say you're going to fix just one thing, a brush stroke or accidental charcoal smudge or improper syntax and then you see something else that needs to be fixed, a bum note or flat delivery of dialogue, and by the time you've ironed out all the little blemishes, the final product has become grossly altered and no longer represents your vision.
Maybe that happened to Picasso. He saw the nose on one of his portraits was leaning to the left so he fixed it, which threw off the eyes so he had to shift them around, which screwed up the mouth and by the time he finished swapping and sorting, he had created Cubism.
Anyway.
The next step is to get a couple of test readers to tell me if it's any good. I'll be looking for more of a content critique rather than grammar and punctuation. I just need to know if it's a good book!
I've gotten some positive feedback on my writing here and I appreciate it so much but the compliments are based on reading me a few times a week. As we all know by now, I'm quite a downer. I think reading my depressing ramblings spread out every couple of days or so is fine. People can handle that. But when I pour all that negativity into one long book, I am afraid it'll be off putting. So much cynicism. The reader will have to pop a couple of Zoloft to make it through chapter 5.
The other day, I was thinking about singer/songwriters. A lot of times, they collaborate with other more seasoned singer/songwriters to elevate their ideas into better products. It seems common with music but not so much with books, unless it's a real writer helping a celebrity put together a memoir or cash in on their fad success with books written about fictionalized versions of themselves. Sure, sometimes well known authors collaborate together but I see them doing it more for fun, rather than one writer helping the other create a better book.
Sometimes, I think it would be great if I had a writing partner. I've stated before that I don't have a ton of ideas but I do have a couple of small pieces of ideas stashed away collecting dust because I don't know where to take them or how to bring out the value of the ideas. I have lines of poetry and very few short story ideas but they stay shelved because I am not good enough to bring them to life. But I could if I had a collaborator.
I think it would be nice if I could have a fellow writer to bounce ideas off of, someone I can feel comfortable sharing possibly bad ideas with, someone I can be totally open with and trust they'll steer me in the right direction, tell me when something is good, tell me when something is cheesy, and turn that cheese into a masterpiece.
I think it would also help my productivity. I often stay stuck on a topic for days or even weeks (I even have ideas I've been sitting on for years) because I can't break through the wall of confusion/insecurity/cluelessness. But if I had someone to write with, they could help me break down the barriers that keep me from a good poem or awesome essay.
But the problem with collaborators is I often wonder how much input these singers and/or authors have in the creation of a song or book. Do they simply add a sentence or two or change up a couple of lyrics and slap their name on it and then say they wrote it? When I hear artists say they write their own songs, it often annoys me because their liner notes say they wrote the song along with three other people. How much credit can you really take when you are one of several? How much is yours and how much are you saying is yours?
I wouldn't want people thinking that about me. I don't want to be known for great art or writing if the majority of it wasn't mine. Heck, I'm not even sure I'd like it if I couldn't claim 100% ownership. What if someone came up to me one day and said a particular line in a poem or a particular piece of dialogue from one of my books completely changed their lives and it just so happens that one line or that one passage was the one line or passage I didn't write myself? I'd feel fake and icky. I don't want to feel that way.
But then again, it's all art and it's all about creating and putting it out there for others to enjoy and does it really matter who it comes from? As long as I'm always straight up and honest and say I am only one person in a team effort to create the best art possible, then what's wrong with that?
And really, does anyone ever create something 100% themselves? Even great writers who can write an entire book on their own have to report to editors who give suggestions.
Then there's the challenge of finding a collaborator. No one I know in real life likes to write so I'd probably have to joining some kind of writing group but I hesitate to do that because I'm not really a writer. I write but I just can't take myself seriously enough to go that deep into it, to step into a literary world where poetry pulses through people's veins and books are stored in their heads waiting for them to sit down and extract them. The only thing I've got floating around in my head is fart jokes and dessert recipes. I wouldn't want to be laughed out of a group.
I'll just have to settle with doing the best I can on my own for now, maybe getting help here and there and if I'm lucky enough, stumble upon someone who gets my writing and gets me so they can help me elevate it to the level I want it to be so I can feel like a real, accomplished writer.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
book notes #10
After yet another break (I don't even know why I keep stopping), I've picked up editing my book again. I'm also more than halfway through so that's pretty exciting.
Although I get disappointed with myself because of all this stopping and starting, the good thing is when I take an extended break, I come back and feel refreshed, like I'm looking at my book with renewed vigor. I also tend to be a bit more brutal with my red pen, which is excellent because I have to cut at least 80 pages, which will still make the book too long, but at least it'll reduce it to an annoying length rather than a totally unreadable one.
I've also finally decided to keep the book mostly about the college experience and less on my life as a whole. That will help me cut out some of the length as well. I realized I could shed more light on my life through subsequent books instead of trying to cram it all into one.
Yet, I'm also annoyed because when I pick the book up again after a long absence, I feel more and more separated from the story. I originally decided to write the book in hopes it would be a therapeutic experience but over the years, I feel I've worked out most of the issues I explore in the book. I thought writing it would help me work through things and it has but I suppose not as much as I had hoped. Plus, because I have mostly accepted the events and resulting ramifications, I don't feel as much of a push to finish.
I probably will finish but I'm just not on fire for the project like I used to be. I'm not exactly sure why. As I mentioned, I suspect it has a lot to do with the fact that it's not as healing as I hoped it would be. And as I edit, I see it's whiny and repetitive. Cutting out the repetition will also help shorten the book but how can I fix the whine? That'll be harder to do. I have a penchant for not finishing anything so I really need to see this one through. Even if it is a complete disaster.
As much time as I've spent writing about writing the book, I probably could have just finished the thing already.
Although I get disappointed with myself because of all this stopping and starting, the good thing is when I take an extended break, I come back and feel refreshed, like I'm looking at my book with renewed vigor. I also tend to be a bit more brutal with my red pen, which is excellent because I have to cut at least 80 pages, which will still make the book too long, but at least it'll reduce it to an annoying length rather than a totally unreadable one.
I've also finally decided to keep the book mostly about the college experience and less on my life as a whole. That will help me cut out some of the length as well. I realized I could shed more light on my life through subsequent books instead of trying to cram it all into one.
Yet, I'm also annoyed because when I pick the book up again after a long absence, I feel more and more separated from the story. I originally decided to write the book in hopes it would be a therapeutic experience but over the years, I feel I've worked out most of the issues I explore in the book. I thought writing it would help me work through things and it has but I suppose not as much as I had hoped. Plus, because I have mostly accepted the events and resulting ramifications, I don't feel as much of a push to finish.
I probably will finish but I'm just not on fire for the project like I used to be. I'm not exactly sure why. As I mentioned, I suspect it has a lot to do with the fact that it's not as healing as I hoped it would be. And as I edit, I see it's whiny and repetitive. Cutting out the repetition will also help shorten the book but how can I fix the whine? That'll be harder to do. I have a penchant for not finishing anything so I really need to see this one through. Even if it is a complete disaster.
As much time as I've spent writing about writing the book, I probably could have just finished the thing already.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
precursor
There's a part of me that thinks I'm pretty cool. There's a part of me that thinks I'm pretty terrible. When I feel like I've completely blown it, someone comes along and makes me think I'm okay. When I think I'm okay, someone comes along and makes me think I've blown it. I'm in a constant state of transition, swapping between great and egregious, turning from someone pulled together to someone falling apart.
I'm always torn up inside.
I feel like a lot of people have had their hands in my actions and voice, especially my words. And I struggle between listening to people I consider wiser and more experienced while still trying to stay true to myself. When it comes down to it, I write for me. Writing is my therapy and because of that, things are written from my perspective so naturally things will be skewed. As much as I try to create a balance in my writing and in my thinking, things will probably always sway in a dark direction.
The fact that quite a few people can relate to what I write is why I post it online. I could keep a handwritten journal but if my writing is beneficial to anyone, then I want to share it. But at the same time I don't want to change my content to appease anyone. Sure, I'd love to be more positive, would love to write about the happy things I encounter but that's just not where I am at this point. If anything, I feel like changing my content would betray the reasons why people come to read me in the first place. If what I was writing before was attracting readers, why should I change it to try to keep them when I might end up putting them off?
I do understand the notion of making my writing more accessible. I need to make my writing shorter, which makes it easier to read and digest. Shorter paragraphs. Shorter entries. Less negativity. I understand but I don't want to make my writing something more than it is. I don't want other people to do that, either. Yeah, I talk about wanting to die and hating life but who doesn't feel that way sometimes? I just happen to feel that way often. And I just happen to share it while others do not. But it's really just me venting. No more. No less. If people like it then that is fantastic. Welcome aboard. If someone doesn't, if I'm too negative, if I make others frustrated with my brick wall doldrums, then the great thing about this website is there are hundreds more people to read. Most are way better than mine. And that's okay as well.
I know I have a problem with being down a lot. I know that it can wear on people's nerves. Believe me. I have to interact with those kind of people on a daily basis and it's exhausting. But I always hope my writing is less lamenting and more lyrical than the average despondent young adult male. Yes, it's mostly negative and gets uncomfortably dark sometimes but I see it as a sense of straight forward observation rather than whiny bleak despair. More poetic and less pathetic. But maybe I've been wrong. I'm sure I've turned away quite a few people with my constant barrage of bad luck behavior. In fact, I know I have. The funny thing is a lot of those people were no better than I was. And less articulate in their misery.
But then I have to go back to the notion of staying true to myself. No one has to read me. If I went back to getting two or three notes, then that would just have to be fine because I don't want to be false and feign a certain feeling just to provide a relief to the reader. Does that sound selfish? I'm sorry. But see, I get no relief myself. You can turn me off but I can't turn off the suffering that spins in my head. I don't particularly enjoy going over the same themes of weight and image and lacking confidence and talent but that's what stabs at me until I bleed it out in blog form. Maybe one day I'll have written it to the point of finding peace. Or exhaustion. Or death. Either way, I'll be done and it'll be nice to rest.
Although I'm fine with writing about depression in my entries, I always thought I was a pretty decent person to be around in real life but every once in a while, someone will point out that I'm negative outside of my writing. No one wants to be around a Danny Downer but I guess I never realized how bad I was. It's just a case of someone slapping me across the face with how dumb I am sometimes. It often leaves a nasty bruise of embarrassment. Now all I can think of are all the times when I possibly pushed someone away with my self-inflicted insults and attacks on my own body and behavior. I think I've messed up a lot.
It's okay, though. I write so I can figure that kind of stuff out. I use it as a tool to untangle my many shortcomings and hopefully one day overcome them. You've just caught me in the sorting phase of my fractured fallout from dying without ever having really lived to finally finding a heartbeat again and being left to deal with the ramifications of such a piss-poor existence.
I'm always torn up inside.
I feel like a lot of people have had their hands in my actions and voice, especially my words. And I struggle between listening to people I consider wiser and more experienced while still trying to stay true to myself. When it comes down to it, I write for me. Writing is my therapy and because of that, things are written from my perspective so naturally things will be skewed. As much as I try to create a balance in my writing and in my thinking, things will probably always sway in a dark direction.
The fact that quite a few people can relate to what I write is why I post it online. I could keep a handwritten journal but if my writing is beneficial to anyone, then I want to share it. But at the same time I don't want to change my content to appease anyone. Sure, I'd love to be more positive, would love to write about the happy things I encounter but that's just not where I am at this point. If anything, I feel like changing my content would betray the reasons why people come to read me in the first place. If what I was writing before was attracting readers, why should I change it to try to keep them when I might end up putting them off?
I do understand the notion of making my writing more accessible. I need to make my writing shorter, which makes it easier to read and digest. Shorter paragraphs. Shorter entries. Less negativity. I understand but I don't want to make my writing something more than it is. I don't want other people to do that, either. Yeah, I talk about wanting to die and hating life but who doesn't feel that way sometimes? I just happen to feel that way often. And I just happen to share it while others do not. But it's really just me venting. No more. No less. If people like it then that is fantastic. Welcome aboard. If someone doesn't, if I'm too negative, if I make others frustrated with my brick wall doldrums, then the great thing about this website is there are hundreds more people to read. Most are way better than mine. And that's okay as well.
I know I have a problem with being down a lot. I know that it can wear on people's nerves. Believe me. I have to interact with those kind of people on a daily basis and it's exhausting. But I always hope my writing is less lamenting and more lyrical than the average despondent young adult male. Yes, it's mostly negative and gets uncomfortably dark sometimes but I see it as a sense of straight forward observation rather than whiny bleak despair. More poetic and less pathetic. But maybe I've been wrong. I'm sure I've turned away quite a few people with my constant barrage of bad luck behavior. In fact, I know I have. The funny thing is a lot of those people were no better than I was. And less articulate in their misery.
But then I have to go back to the notion of staying true to myself. No one has to read me. If I went back to getting two or three notes, then that would just have to be fine because I don't want to be false and feign a certain feeling just to provide a relief to the reader. Does that sound selfish? I'm sorry. But see, I get no relief myself. You can turn me off but I can't turn off the suffering that spins in my head. I don't particularly enjoy going over the same themes of weight and image and lacking confidence and talent but that's what stabs at me until I bleed it out in blog form. Maybe one day I'll have written it to the point of finding peace. Or exhaustion. Or death. Either way, I'll be done and it'll be nice to rest.
Although I'm fine with writing about depression in my entries, I always thought I was a pretty decent person to be around in real life but every once in a while, someone will point out that I'm negative outside of my writing. No one wants to be around a Danny Downer but I guess I never realized how bad I was. It's just a case of someone slapping me across the face with how dumb I am sometimes. It often leaves a nasty bruise of embarrassment. Now all I can think of are all the times when I possibly pushed someone away with my self-inflicted insults and attacks on my own body and behavior. I think I've messed up a lot.
It's okay, though. I write so I can figure that kind of stuff out. I use it as a tool to untangle my many shortcomings and hopefully one day overcome them. You've just caught me in the sorting phase of my fractured fallout from dying without ever having really lived to finally finding a heartbeat again and being left to deal with the ramifications of such a piss-poor existence.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
fluctuation frustration
The compliments keep pouring in...
Last week, I rang the doorbell at work to be let in and a coworker unlocked it for me and as he opened the door, he said, "Get your skinny ass in here!"
That was a nice way to start the day.
Later on, another coworker and I were talking and she said, "Are you still on that diet?"
I nodded.
"Well, there's almost nothing left of you!"
That was also nice. And it was flattering but there's plenty left of me.
A former co-worker came in just a day or two ago and also commented on the fact that I had lost weight. And today, a co-worker that only comes in once a month asked me if I had lost some weight.
"About 47 pounds now," I said. I've been fluctuating between 47-48 for the past two weeks or so.
"And I'm just now noticing?"
It seems to be that way. I received a few remarks here and there when I lost 20 pounds and then a couple more once I hit 30 but mostly no one said anything. But now that I'm almost at 50 pounds down, it's getting noticed from all angles and of course, it's fantastic. But I just don't get it.
As I've mentioned before, I still have that "fat guy" mentality. My brain can't keep up with my body in terms of being fat and skinny. I feel like I don't see what others are seeing. Sure, my chest looks a little flatter to me. My arms are more defined. But I can't get past my large stomach that pushes against my shirts or the way my thighs still jiggle when I work out. It's almost as if my smaller parts accentuate the larger ones.
It's frustrating being so close to the 60 pounds I wanted to lose and realizing a couple of things: my weight loss is slowing down and it's getting harder to lose that last little bit and keep my willpower up and I see now that 60 pounds isn't going to be enough. Once I hit my goal, I'll take a bit of a break. Maybe have a pizza. And then I'm going to have to go back at it.
I also realized that I've dedicated this year to losing all that weight. I've been dieting and exercising almost every day since January. I took some time off when I had my throat surgery but once I was healed, I picked up where I left off. I've been so focused on losing weight, concentrating on portion control and cardio, that I have neglected my movie watching and book reading and book writing. I have almost completely abandoned my memoir. I just honestly feel like I'll never get it finished because I keep stopping. I almost don't even want to talk about it/write about it anymore because it's embarrassing that I've been spouting off about it for all these years and still have nothing to show for it except a half-edited first draft.
But I guess it's not so bad. Once I get my weight under control, that will be one less thing to obsess over so maybe that'll open up space in my head for creativity and give me more room to write. But still, I can't help but to feel bad that I took a year out of my life just to correct a problem that shouldn't have been there in the first place. And it seems like a waste. But I can't look at it that way, I know.
One thing at a time. Lose the bulge, write the book. And I can remember that it was worth it 'cause I'll look really good for my book jacket photo.
Last week, I rang the doorbell at work to be let in and a coworker unlocked it for me and as he opened the door, he said, "Get your skinny ass in here!"
That was a nice way to start the day.
Later on, another coworker and I were talking and she said, "Are you still on that diet?"
I nodded.
"Well, there's almost nothing left of you!"
That was also nice. And it was flattering but there's plenty left of me.
A former co-worker came in just a day or two ago and also commented on the fact that I had lost weight. And today, a co-worker that only comes in once a month asked me if I had lost some weight.
"About 47 pounds now," I said. I've been fluctuating between 47-48 for the past two weeks or so.
"And I'm just now noticing?"
It seems to be that way. I received a few remarks here and there when I lost 20 pounds and then a couple more once I hit 30 but mostly no one said anything. But now that I'm almost at 50 pounds down, it's getting noticed from all angles and of course, it's fantastic. But I just don't get it.
As I've mentioned before, I still have that "fat guy" mentality. My brain can't keep up with my body in terms of being fat and skinny. I feel like I don't see what others are seeing. Sure, my chest looks a little flatter to me. My arms are more defined. But I can't get past my large stomach that pushes against my shirts or the way my thighs still jiggle when I work out. It's almost as if my smaller parts accentuate the larger ones.
It's frustrating being so close to the 60 pounds I wanted to lose and realizing a couple of things: my weight loss is slowing down and it's getting harder to lose that last little bit and keep my willpower up and I see now that 60 pounds isn't going to be enough. Once I hit my goal, I'll take a bit of a break. Maybe have a pizza. And then I'm going to have to go back at it.
I also realized that I've dedicated this year to losing all that weight. I've been dieting and exercising almost every day since January. I took some time off when I had my throat surgery but once I was healed, I picked up where I left off. I've been so focused on losing weight, concentrating on portion control and cardio, that I have neglected my movie watching and book reading and book writing. I have almost completely abandoned my memoir. I just honestly feel like I'll never get it finished because I keep stopping. I almost don't even want to talk about it/write about it anymore because it's embarrassing that I've been spouting off about it for all these years and still have nothing to show for it except a half-edited first draft.
But I guess it's not so bad. Once I get my weight under control, that will be one less thing to obsess over so maybe that'll open up space in my head for creativity and give me more room to write. But still, I can't help but to feel bad that I took a year out of my life just to correct a problem that shouldn't have been there in the first place. And it seems like a waste. But I can't look at it that way, I know.
One thing at a time. Lose the bulge, write the book. And I can remember that it was worth it 'cause I'll look really good for my book jacket photo.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
nocturnal permissions
I was thinking about writing the other day, specifically poetry and realized I hadn't written a poem in over two years. I used to be so inspired to write poetry. Lines flew into my head like it was the easiest thing in the world. But one day, for reasons unbeknownst to me, it became harder and harder to write and the words wouldn't form and the lines that once slipped in so easily no longer showed up. And I had to force it and it didn't feel natural anymore so I just stopped.
I suppose all of this thinking about poetry might have been why a poem suddenly popped into my head one night. I just happened to be in that stage of sleep twilight, those precious few seconds when you can actually feel yourself crossing over into unconsciousness, a moment when you feel as if your internal organs have shifted just so, a wash of nausea and then your awareness fades and you're under.
It was odd because I haven't had the ability to write poetry in years and suddenly, this almost fully formed poem is thrust into my mind right before it shuts off for the night. It wasn't a good poem but I found it interesting that it even showed up at all. I don't want to say I thought that part of me was gone but I feel my writing has changed since my last attempt at poetry writing and it almost feels like it's just not the appropriate medium for me right now. I don't understand poetry enough to appreciate it the way I should nor write it how I should.
This isn't the first case of it happening. Back when my creative juices were really flowing, poetry came flooding into my head night and day. I often found lines embedded in my head and it was as if digging for sleep somehow uncovered those buried bits of mood and feeling.
I've even managed to come up with melodies and song lyrics seconds before sleep, which is quite curious because I am no song writer, nor a singer by any stretch of the imagination. Yet, there they were, these incomplete bits of songs and poetry, lines of feeling formed and free falling in my mind, snatched up seconds before sleep.
It's as if those few moments before I fall under are when my mind allows itself to break free from the strain of worry and fear and it grants permission to explore my pent up emotions in a more creative way. It's as if drowsiness is an elixir of sorts, my drug of choice for coming up with ideas. I've always come up with my best ideas at night. It's when I work best. It's when I feel calmer, more focused and less sporadic. It's as if the closer I get to sleep, the more creative I become, the apex being at the moment when my brain is in transition.
Who knew my muse was hiding at the bottom of a bottle of night time cold medication? Maybe I just need to stay buzzed on sleeping pills. Then I can finally find my creativity again and write good poetry and finish my book and work on others.
I suppose all of this thinking about poetry might have been why a poem suddenly popped into my head one night. I just happened to be in that stage of sleep twilight, those precious few seconds when you can actually feel yourself crossing over into unconsciousness, a moment when you feel as if your internal organs have shifted just so, a wash of nausea and then your awareness fades and you're under.
It was odd because I haven't had the ability to write poetry in years and suddenly, this almost fully formed poem is thrust into my mind right before it shuts off for the night. It wasn't a good poem but I found it interesting that it even showed up at all. I don't want to say I thought that part of me was gone but I feel my writing has changed since my last attempt at poetry writing and it almost feels like it's just not the appropriate medium for me right now. I don't understand poetry enough to appreciate it the way I should nor write it how I should.
This isn't the first case of it happening. Back when my creative juices were really flowing, poetry came flooding into my head night and day. I often found lines embedded in my head and it was as if digging for sleep somehow uncovered those buried bits of mood and feeling.
I've even managed to come up with melodies and song lyrics seconds before sleep, which is quite curious because I am no song writer, nor a singer by any stretch of the imagination. Yet, there they were, these incomplete bits of songs and poetry, lines of feeling formed and free falling in my mind, snatched up seconds before sleep.
It's as if those few moments before I fall under are when my mind allows itself to break free from the strain of worry and fear and it grants permission to explore my pent up emotions in a more creative way. It's as if drowsiness is an elixir of sorts, my drug of choice for coming up with ideas. I've always come up with my best ideas at night. It's when I work best. It's when I feel calmer, more focused and less sporadic. It's as if the closer I get to sleep, the more creative I become, the apex being at the moment when my brain is in transition.
Who knew my muse was hiding at the bottom of a bottle of night time cold medication? Maybe I just need to stay buzzed on sleeping pills. Then I can finally find my creativity again and write good poetry and finish my book and work on others.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
pot/luck
"The idea that creative endeavor and mind-altering substances are entwined is one of the great pop-intellectual myths of our time."
-Stephen King, On Writing
I've never tried drugs and I've never consumed alcohol. In fact, I'm pretty anti-drug. With that being said, I have been curious about what it would be like to be under the influence. Not only would it provide a temporary escape from my crappy existence but I also wonder if it would help ease the tension of my writer's block.
I just don't have ideas. All these writers keep talking about these ideas that constantly flow through their heads and I just don't have that going on. Is it because the creativity isn't there? Or is it just blocked? And if that's the case, how can I unclog the ol' cranium?
If you've ever seen someone drunk or on drugs, it's pretty apparent their mind has been shifted to some degree. It's as if their mind has gone to a different location where they see and hear and feel things differently. Their on a different plane of existence. So what if that mind shift could be focused into a creative outlet? What if drugs open up different doors that usually remain closed? Some novels considered to be classics, such as Naked Lunch, have been written under the influence of mind-altering substances. Then there are others, such as Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, that while maybe not written while on drugs, are about drugs and considered important works. In his book On Writing, Stephen King states he doesn't even remember writing Cujo because he was so drunk.
For me, I wonder what would happen if I decided to dabble in drugs. Would it help or harm my craft? Stephen King doesn't think it'll do anything for me. In his book, he goes on to say:
Basically, if you're an artist, you're an artist. If you're a drinker, you're a drinker. There's not necessarily a correlation between the two, except to say many artists are more inclined to become addicts but that doesn't mean the addiction fuels the art.
And my professor in college thought along those same lines. He also once told us that drugs had no effect on creativity. If it were any other professor, I'd would have thought they were just trying to be responsible and tell us that drugs are bad, mmkay? But this guy wasn't like that. He was the type that would go drinking with his students. He was open about his personal life and his own experiences with narcotics and I didn't see him being the type of guy who would lie and say drugs didn't contain any magical talent enhancing abilities when they in fact did. But he was adamant that it wasn't the case.
But I still can't help but to wonder. It's got to do something to you, besides give you the munchies. If it transforms your behavior, why wouldn't it transform your creative output? I don't know. Maybe drugs don't enhance creativity but rearrange it. You're brain goes through a tumbling when intoxicated, so why wouldn't your talent? And maybe it's just chance if the stuff that comes out is good rather than just plain incoherent.
Where do those ideas come from? Where is talent conceived? Is it pot or is it luck that creates a piece of art? Is it dope or daydreaming that creates the artist? I haven't decided but I'm curious to find out. That's not to say that drugs should be a quick fix for stifled ideas. It shouldn't replace hard work and constant practice. But what if it gave your mind a little push, a complement to the creative process?
I doubt I'll ever find out. I'm too much of a goody-goody to actually do drugs so I suppose I'll resign myself to just pondering it. With my luck, it wouldn't do anything good for me, just make me act like a fool. I can do that while sober, thank you very much. I'll just stick to being drug-free and mediocre. At least for now.
-Stephen King, On Writing
I've never tried drugs and I've never consumed alcohol. In fact, I'm pretty anti-drug. With that being said, I have been curious about what it would be like to be under the influence. Not only would it provide a temporary escape from my crappy existence but I also wonder if it would help ease the tension of my writer's block.
I just don't have ideas. All these writers keep talking about these ideas that constantly flow through their heads and I just don't have that going on. Is it because the creativity isn't there? Or is it just blocked? And if that's the case, how can I unclog the ol' cranium?
If you've ever seen someone drunk or on drugs, it's pretty apparent their mind has been shifted to some degree. It's as if their mind has gone to a different location where they see and hear and feel things differently. Their on a different plane of existence. So what if that mind shift could be focused into a creative outlet? What if drugs open up different doors that usually remain closed? Some novels considered to be classics, such as Naked Lunch, have been written under the influence of mind-altering substances. Then there are others, such as Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, that while maybe not written while on drugs, are about drugs and considered important works. In his book On Writing, Stephen King states he doesn't even remember writing Cujo because he was so drunk.
For me, I wonder what would happen if I decided to dabble in drugs. Would it help or harm my craft? Stephen King doesn't think it'll do anything for me. In his book, he goes on to say:
These concepts are very familiar to most alcoholics; the common reaction to them is amusement. Substance-abusing writers are just substance abusers--common garden-variety drunks and druggies, in other words. Any claims that the drugs and alcohol are necessary to dull a finer sensibility are just the usual self-serving bullshit.
Basically, if you're an artist, you're an artist. If you're a drinker, you're a drinker. There's not necessarily a correlation between the two, except to say many artists are more inclined to become addicts but that doesn't mean the addiction fuels the art.
And my professor in college thought along those same lines. He also once told us that drugs had no effect on creativity. If it were any other professor, I'd would have thought they were just trying to be responsible and tell us that drugs are bad, mmkay? But this guy wasn't like that. He was the type that would go drinking with his students. He was open about his personal life and his own experiences with narcotics and I didn't see him being the type of guy who would lie and say drugs didn't contain any magical talent enhancing abilities when they in fact did. But he was adamant that it wasn't the case.
But I still can't help but to wonder. It's got to do something to you, besides give you the munchies. If it transforms your behavior, why wouldn't it transform your creative output? I don't know. Maybe drugs don't enhance creativity but rearrange it. You're brain goes through a tumbling when intoxicated, so why wouldn't your talent? And maybe it's just chance if the stuff that comes out is good rather than just plain incoherent.
Where do those ideas come from? Where is talent conceived? Is it pot or is it luck that creates a piece of art? Is it dope or daydreaming that creates the artist? I haven't decided but I'm curious to find out. That's not to say that drugs should be a quick fix for stifled ideas. It shouldn't replace hard work and constant practice. But what if it gave your mind a little push, a complement to the creative process?
I doubt I'll ever find out. I'm too much of a goody-goody to actually do drugs so I suppose I'll resign myself to just pondering it. With my luck, it wouldn't do anything good for me, just make me act like a fool. I can do that while sober, thank you very much. I'll just stick to being drug-free and mediocre. At least for now.
Monday, July 23, 2012
book notes #9: content
I previously mentioned I don't feel like much of a writer, yet here I am talking about writing my book. Seems slightly nonsensical but the way I see it, Snooki isn't a writer either but if she can put out a book, so can I. I still stand by my previous statements.
With that being said, it took three ink cartridges but I finally printed out my entire book. I have already edited 126 8.5" x 11" pages and have 196 more to go. For the size book I want it to be, it's going to be 589 pages (holy crap) so that means I have to do some major cutting.
It dismays me to report, however, that during my vacation from work, I did not
touch my book once. I wrote several blog entries and picked up The Complete Idiot's Guide to Writing a Memoir and Stephen King's On Writing, both of which I also haven't touched, but as far as finishing editing the first draft, um...I didn't.
But from the editing I have managed to accomplish, I've noticed several problems cropping up. As I'm reading and editing, I'm thinking of more stuff I need to add to make it coherent. When I kept track of my first year of college through my blog and with personal journals, I didn't go into exact details on the events that took place. So, as I'm reading this book, I'm getting a lot of reflective chapters with back story tacked on. I have to take those tacked on events and put them first so the reflection makes sense. I think that will help the flow.
I don't like starting every chapter with, "Two weeks prior, this happened" or "she made that face because she still couldn't get over that time a month ago when I..." I feel the constant back and forth of shifting from past to further in the past makes things a bit murky. It's a lot like trying to put together a puzzle and that is tiresome.
I realized I also almost fully neglected to talk about my classes, except through reflection afterward. I have to find a way to talk about my classes first and reflect later.
One way in which I have been trying to cut down on the content is by removing a lot of my tendency to over explain what I'm feeling. I'll go off on an alliterative tangent and before I know it, I have a whole paragraph that says the exact same thing in different fancy ways. It's a style I've unconsciously developed over the years and something I'm really going to have to to try to cut out.
I also wonder if I should stick strictly with my time at college. I included chapters during my Christmas vacation and Spring break while I was at home. But even though I was at home, all I wrote about was school so I think those chapters are still important. I thought about taking those chapters and condensing them to the most basic point and sprinkle it in the chapters where I'm actually at school.
And I've noticed that I jumped right into my craziness in the first couple of chapters. I'm finding it hard to sympathize with me as a character in the book because it comes across like I'm devastated right when I step foot on campus (which I pretty much was) but unless the reader knows my back story, how excited I was for college and how it all blew up in my face, I don't think the reader will get it or will understand why I became so broken so quickly.
My last concern is the fact that I don't even know what I want this book to be. At first, I wanted it to be a book about my first year of college. Fine. But what is that comprised of? Is it more about me or the college experience itself? I've put in so much background information about myself, like my struggle with weight and religion and all of those topics come up during my time in college and, once again, for the reader to fully understand how I feel about each scenario, I feel I have to give some additional information. But that's additional pages.
Obviously, I need to get it together and figure out a proper direction for the book before I get in too deep with the editing. The truth is, I'm finding it hard to cut out too much because I feel like, even though it's entirely too long, everything I've included has some importance to the overall story and to understanding me as I am.
I suppose if I were to release other books, I could spread my back story out a little bit over the course of those books but I don't know if there will be other books. It's almost like I'm trying to tell my whole life story in this one story, cramming twenty years into just one year, like I'm trying to include college life and life in general and me breaking down and trying to build myself up. It's all encompassing and more than slightly overwhelming.
This is going to take longer than I thought.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
a vampire bites a zombie (and vice versa)
"Something deep in the human heart breaks at the thought of a life of mediocrity."
-C.S. Lewis
I've battled with myself for years over my drawing and writing abilities and I can never seem to come to a satisfactory conclusion. I might draw better than the people around here who can't tell the difference between Picasso and a pickup truck and I might write better than the people around here who can't .
I'm talented for my small town but as far as the world is concerned, I'm mediocre. And that's on a good day. I will never change lives. I will never write an epic or paint a masterpiece. And because of that, it makes me wonder what the point of any of it is. I'm not innovative or changing the landscape of art. If anything, I'm just peddling more average content around that does not stir the heart or stimulate the head.
I realized why that is. It's because I am not an artist. I am not a writer.
I'm not talented. Just tortured.
Now, let me explain.
-C.S. Lewis
I've battled with myself for years over my drawing and writing abilities and I can never seem to come to a satisfactory conclusion. I might draw better than the people around here who can't tell the difference between Picasso and a pickup truck and I might write better than the people around here who can't .
I'm talented for my small town but as far as the world is concerned, I'm mediocre. And that's on a good day. I will never change lives. I will never write an epic or paint a masterpiece. And because of that, it makes me wonder what the point of any of it is. I'm not innovative or changing the landscape of art. If anything, I'm just peddling more average content around that does not stir the heart or stimulate the head.
I realized why that is. It's because I am not an artist. I am not a writer.
I'm not talented. Just tortured.
Now, let me explain.
Friday, June 29, 2012
on holiday
My mom and dad are going to see my sister for a few days next week and I decided to take advantage of them being gone by taking a holiday from work. It'll be so nice to have some time to myself for a change. Dad works during the week and Mom works on the weekend so someone is always home to annoy me. I love them, blah blah, but a guy needs some solitude, ya know? I was starting to think I'd have to take a pilgrimage to Waldon Pond just to find a quiet place to poop and ponder.
Mom excitedly told me my sister wanted me to come along, too. Like she was trying to convince me my sister really wanted to see me. Like I'm going to buy that crap. It was annoying because I've already made my feelings clear and nothing anyone says or does it going to change it.
I just haven't had much to do with her after she acted so cold toward me when I needed her years ago. For so long, I was her biggest fan. She was always disinterested in me. Now it's my turn. We were never close and we never will be and my mom needs to stop trying to make us pals. It is not going to happen.
In my continuing to self-destruct my diet, there's a new pizza place open a few towns over and I want to go eat some. I figure I have the next week to re-dedicate myself to diet and exercise and I am on vacation. I can splurge a little, right? But didn't I splurge last weekend and the weekend before that? Holy crap, I'm such a fat kid at heart. It doesn't matter how much weight I lose, I'm always going to crave Coke and cookies.
I thought about going to eat with someone but then I realized I had no one. My work girlfriend has a real-life boyfriend and he probably wouldn't appreciate me going out with her, although most guys aren't threatened by me, which makes me feel really great about myself.
It usually goes a little something like this:
The boyfriend says, "You're going out with some guy? I don't care if he is 'just your friend.'"
He takes a look at me.
"Oh, okay, call me when you get back."
Just about everyone else sucks so I don't know who to turn to.
I am really alone.
Of course, I just started this entry by saying I wanted to be alone but not like this. Not lonely. I thought about buying some crocheting needles and driving back down to the Starbucks in Florida and joining the lesbian knitting group I saw there last time, or either stabbing myself in the jugular with them. I'm still undecided.
I guess I'll just have to make a go of it solo. Just get out of the house and explore. Drive in my car. Play some emo music to get me in the mood to meditate. I might even make a whole day of it. Make the mall my Walden.
The only problem is I wanted to be constructive on my days off. I wanted to finish editing the first draft of my book by next week so I can do rewrites and ask people to start proofreading/reviewing it soon. My plan was to write several blog entries for the first day or two I was off and store them so I could concentrate on finishing the book while still continuously updating my blog. So far all I've managed to do is literally stay in bed all day long and play video games. So that's one day wasted and if I go out of town tomorrow, that's another day gone.
But maybe I need it.
Or I could muti-task and work on my book at that Starbucks. 'Cause that wouldn't make me look like a douche at all.
Mom excitedly told me my sister wanted me to come along, too. Like she was trying to convince me my sister really wanted to see me. Like I'm going to buy that crap. It was annoying because I've already made my feelings clear and nothing anyone says or does it going to change it.
I just haven't had much to do with her after she acted so cold toward me when I needed her years ago. For so long, I was her biggest fan. She was always disinterested in me. Now it's my turn. We were never close and we never will be and my mom needs to stop trying to make us pals. It is not going to happen.
In my continuing to self-destruct my diet, there's a new pizza place open a few towns over and I want to go eat some. I figure I have the next week to re-dedicate myself to diet and exercise and I am on vacation. I can splurge a little, right? But didn't I splurge last weekend and the weekend before that? Holy crap, I'm such a fat kid at heart. It doesn't matter how much weight I lose, I'm always going to crave Coke and cookies.
I thought about going to eat with someone but then I realized I had no one. My work girlfriend has a real-life boyfriend and he probably wouldn't appreciate me going out with her, although most guys aren't threatened by me, which makes me feel really great about myself.
It usually goes a little something like this:
The boyfriend says, "You're going out with some guy? I don't care if he is 'just your friend.'"
He takes a look at me.
"Oh, okay, call me when you get back."
Just about everyone else sucks so I don't know who to turn to.
I am really alone.
Of course, I just started this entry by saying I wanted to be alone but not like this. Not lonely. I thought about buying some crocheting needles and driving back down to the Starbucks in Florida and joining the lesbian knitting group I saw there last time, or either stabbing myself in the jugular with them. I'm still undecided.
I guess I'll just have to make a go of it solo. Just get out of the house and explore. Drive in my car. Play some emo music to get me in the mood to meditate. I might even make a whole day of it. Make the mall my Walden.
The only problem is I wanted to be constructive on my days off. I wanted to finish editing the first draft of my book by next week so I can do rewrites and ask people to start proofreading/reviewing it soon. My plan was to write several blog entries for the first day or two I was off and store them so I could concentrate on finishing the book while still continuously updating my blog. So far all I've managed to do is literally stay in bed all day long and play video games. So that's one day wasted and if I go out of town tomorrow, that's another day gone.
But maybe I need it.
Or I could muti-task and work on my book at that Starbucks. 'Cause that wouldn't make me look like a douche at all.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
book notes #8
After writing, on and off, for about four years, I have finally finished the first draft of my book. And when I say on and off, I mean I wrote for about two weeks, then took four months off, wrote for about 5 weeks, then took two months off, etc. So it's not like I labored tirelessly for four long years straight through.
But I have written more in the past several months than I have in the past several years and it feels good to finally be finished. Of course, I'm not completely finished but I've written the work and the real magic (or madness) begins with editing.
Speaking of, the book ended up being 589 pages! That's way too long. And you all thought I was long-winded with my entries. Imagine them all crammed together and bound into a book. Although, to be fair, it does cover an entire school year. A lot of stuff happened. But I'm going to have to make some difficult cuts to trim the size a bit.
The bad part is I already left some things out that I didn't think were important and I even rushed the last section because I thought the book was running too long. But hopefully I can even it all out after a few edits. Once I cut out enough stuff, I'll feel more comfortable going back to the last several chapters and fleshing them out a bit more.
After I finished, I went to print out the book so I could really go in and start marking it all up with my red pen. But after about twenty pages, my printer ran out of ink. The next day, I picked up some more ink and went home and changed the cartridge and after about 200 pages, I ran out of ink again. Maybe I'm not an ink expert but does ink really run out that fast? Trying to print this thing out is already becoming annoying and costly.
I hope the editing won't take more than two months and then I'll send it to a few people for more editing/content and just to get a different perspective.
It's going to be weird when I really am finished. Like I said, I've had this project close to me for four years now, even if it has been on and off. But when I put it out there and no longer sit down and revisit those memories and events, it's going to be strange. Might even be like a part of my day is missing.
That's not to say there will be an empty space. I already have plans for a follow-up book and then I want to participate in National Novel Writing month coming up in November and I have the book I wrote two years ago for National Novel Writing month that I would like to mold into something nice. So other books are in the works and I should keep busy.
But for now, this one means the most to me.
But I have written more in the past several months than I have in the past several years and it feels good to finally be finished. Of course, I'm not completely finished but I've written the work and the real magic (or madness) begins with editing.
Speaking of, the book ended up being 589 pages! That's way too long. And you all thought I was long-winded with my entries. Imagine them all crammed together and bound into a book. Although, to be fair, it does cover an entire school year. A lot of stuff happened. But I'm going to have to make some difficult cuts to trim the size a bit.
The bad part is I already left some things out that I didn't think were important and I even rushed the last section because I thought the book was running too long. But hopefully I can even it all out after a few edits. Once I cut out enough stuff, I'll feel more comfortable going back to the last several chapters and fleshing them out a bit more.
After I finished, I went to print out the book so I could really go in and start marking it all up with my red pen. But after about twenty pages, my printer ran out of ink. The next day, I picked up some more ink and went home and changed the cartridge and after about 200 pages, I ran out of ink again. Maybe I'm not an ink expert but does ink really run out that fast? Trying to print this thing out is already becoming annoying and costly.
I hope the editing won't take more than two months and then I'll send it to a few people for more editing/content and just to get a different perspective.
It's going to be weird when I really am finished. Like I said, I've had this project close to me for four years now, even if it has been on and off. But when I put it out there and no longer sit down and revisit those memories and events, it's going to be strange. Might even be like a part of my day is missing.
That's not to say there will be an empty space. I already have plans for a follow-up book and then I want to participate in National Novel Writing month coming up in November and I have the book I wrote two years ago for National Novel Writing month that I would like to mold into something nice. So other books are in the works and I should keep busy.
But for now, this one means the most to me.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
content
I've been thinking about rebranding my blog, possibly even renaming it. I've had this thing for close to four years now and I get very little traffic and few comments so I must be doing something wrong.
My number one mistake is that I don't advertise my blog. I could use Facebook and Twitter but I haven't done that yet. The main reason is because the blog is too personal for people I know in real life to read it. Isn't it funny how I'd rather perfect strangers read my most intimate thoughts rather than friends and family and coworkers? Well, I guess it's not that funny because I talk about most of them. It makes sense that I wouldn't want them to read it.
I also think about how awkward it is having other people I know reading about my business. I give the entire world access to my mind but that's only if they can find it. If people stumble upon my madness, that's fine. I'm just not handing out invitations.
So, where does that leave me? I could start another blog that's not as personal, one where I talk about my writing and future books and throw in some sporadic introspection. Or, I could take this blog and scale back on the personal stuff and focus more on promotion.
I hope to release my first book by the end of the year and inside I'd like to put a link to this blog. I hope that will bring some traffic here but I just don't know if I want to keep my blog name. It expires early next month so I have a chance to change it. If I'm going to, this is the time to do it.
The name of my blog and the blog itself was spawned from my death. The name was good because to me, it surmised what the blog and my life/death was all about, which was constant decay day after day. But now that I'm alive again, it feels like time for a change. And I think I need to change my blog name to something a bit less gloomy. While I think the everyday entropy concept still applies, I'm not sure of the accessibility of the name.
But there are some problems with changing the name/site. First of all, I write because I have to get things off my chest. It's my therapy and if I have to hide things or pull back on certain aspects of my writing to protect the feelings of those who might read it, then the writing wouldn't be as effective to me. I don't want to have to censor myself because that is too much work. It's hard enough organizing my thoughts into (hopefully) coherent writings so I couldn't imagine having to take said writings and then edit them for content. It wouldn't feel genuine.
I write about so many dark things and I just don't want people to think I'm morbid. Oh wait, I am. So I guess it doesn't matter what they think 'cause they'd be right.
There's also the worry that by changing my name and/or content, I might lose the small readership that I do have. What if people can't find me anymore? Naturally, I would give ample notice to the changes but what if the casual reader who doesn't come by that often doesn't get that notice?
As I was writing this, I tried researching how easy it would be to change my name and it seems a lot more complicated than I thought. You've got your dead links and affiliate domains and other cyber language I cannot understand so I'd rather just keep the name until I'm more educated with this whole interwebs thing.
I still have the content to contend with, though. Should I pull back or push forward? Should I take a giant leap and put all of myself out there or keep some of the privacy? Or should I do nothing and not advertise through social networking sites and just let people come to me?
My number one mistake is that I don't advertise my blog. I could use Facebook and Twitter but I haven't done that yet. The main reason is because the blog is too personal for people I know in real life to read it. Isn't it funny how I'd rather perfect strangers read my most intimate thoughts rather than friends and family and coworkers? Well, I guess it's not that funny because I talk about most of them. It makes sense that I wouldn't want them to read it.
I also think about how awkward it is having other people I know reading about my business. I give the entire world access to my mind but that's only if they can find it. If people stumble upon my madness, that's fine. I'm just not handing out invitations.
So, where does that leave me? I could start another blog that's not as personal, one where I talk about my writing and future books and throw in some sporadic introspection. Or, I could take this blog and scale back on the personal stuff and focus more on promotion.
I hope to release my first book by the end of the year and inside I'd like to put a link to this blog. I hope that will bring some traffic here but I just don't know if I want to keep my blog name. It expires early next month so I have a chance to change it. If I'm going to, this is the time to do it.
The name of my blog and the blog itself was spawned from my death. The name was good because to me, it surmised what the blog and my life/death was all about, which was constant decay day after day. But now that I'm alive again, it feels like time for a change. And I think I need to change my blog name to something a bit less gloomy. While I think the everyday entropy concept still applies, I'm not sure of the accessibility of the name.
But there are some problems with changing the name/site. First of all, I write because I have to get things off my chest. It's my therapy and if I have to hide things or pull back on certain aspects of my writing to protect the feelings of those who might read it, then the writing wouldn't be as effective to me. I don't want to have to censor myself because that is too much work. It's hard enough organizing my thoughts into (hopefully) coherent writings so I couldn't imagine having to take said writings and then edit them for content. It wouldn't feel genuine.
I write about so many dark things and I just don't want people to think I'm morbid. Oh wait, I am. So I guess it doesn't matter what they think 'cause they'd be right.
There's also the worry that by changing my name and/or content, I might lose the small readership that I do have. What if people can't find me anymore? Naturally, I would give ample notice to the changes but what if the casual reader who doesn't come by that often doesn't get that notice?
As I was writing this, I tried researching how easy it would be to change my name and it seems a lot more complicated than I thought. You've got your dead links and affiliate domains and other cyber language I cannot understand so I'd rather just keep the name until I'm more educated with this whole interwebs thing.
I still have the content to contend with, though. Should I pull back or push forward? Should I take a giant leap and put all of myself out there or keep some of the privacy? Or should I do nothing and not advertise through social networking sites and just let people come to me?
Monday, April 30, 2012
stitches & stuff
About two weeks ago, I noticed that the end of my incision was slightly opened and a stitch was poking out. I don't know how it happened but it was red and hurt to touch. You know, just when I think things are starting to get resolved, I've got another problem.
So I made an appointment to see the doctor. The first thing he did was lean me back in the chair and immediately stuck a sharp metal instrument in the incision. It felt like a bee had just landed on me throat and stung me.
"I know it feels a bit weird," he said as he dug around in there. "Well, I can't get to the stitch. I'd have to cut your throat." I wasn't sure what he meant by that. I was too stunned by the pain to make much sense of anything and didn't think to ask him for clarification. I think he might have been trying to either tie everything back up or maybe he was just trying to clip the excess stitch.
I was basically worried that the incision would heal wrong because of the slight opening but he assured me it was okay. He told me to put some ointment on it until the redness went down so I guess that's all I can do. Hopefully it'll clear up soon. Other than that, it's healing as nice as can be expected.
So I made an appointment to see the doctor. The first thing he did was lean me back in the chair and immediately stuck a sharp metal instrument in the incision. It felt like a bee had just landed on me throat and stung me.
"I know it feels a bit weird," he said as he dug around in there. "Well, I can't get to the stitch. I'd have to cut your throat." I wasn't sure what he meant by that. I was too stunned by the pain to make much sense of anything and didn't think to ask him for clarification. I think he might have been trying to either tie everything back up or maybe he was just trying to clip the excess stitch.
I was basically worried that the incision would heal wrong because of the slight opening but he assured me it was okay. He told me to put some ointment on it until the redness went down so I guess that's all I can do. Hopefully it'll clear up soon. Other than that, it's healing as nice as can be expected.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
book notes #7
I underestimated how drugged out and nauseous I would be from the surgery so I wasn't able to get as much work done on my book as I would have liked. I thought I'd be able to get a lot done because I would be off work for a good seven days but I spent most of the time in bed and in pain.
But despite being dizzy and general feeling of grossness, I was able to complete the second part of my book. Well, the majority of it. The last chapter took me this past week to do, partly from my fractured concentration and partly because I just wasn't sure what I wanted to convey with that particular chapter. But I was able to squeeze something out and so that's good. I can always go back later and polish it up but I can't keep writing if I'm stuck on that one part so I'm glad I was able to finish it and now I can move on.
I have about twenty-something more chapters to go and the third part will be finished and the first draft of the entire book will be done. Finally. After working on it on and off (mostly off) for years now, it's finally looking like it's coming together.
Then, the rewriting and editing and rereading will start but I hope it won't be as time consuming as writing it all out from scratch. With the material right there in front of me, I should be able to work at a faster pace. I just have to make sure it makes sense, conveys what I'm trying to say, and is entertaining. We'll see how it goes.
I have some concerns regarding my story, though. As we all know, I'm long-winded and I feel it's going to be a long book. I could cut some stuff out but I hesitate to do that because I want to present the full picture to the reader of how everything went down during my time at college. I could shorten it and make it a bit easier to read but it might not be as enjoyable. Then again, it might not be enjoyable to read a 500 page book, especially with people's short attention spans these days.
And what if I'm only good in short bursts? There's only so much alliteration and whiny emo bullcrap one can take before it's not fun to read anymore. I might be able to crank out a decent essay every once in a while but is my writing strong enough to carry an entire book? I'm not so sure.
As much as I would love to be the next Amanda Hocking or J.A. Konrath, I'm not sure it'll happen for me. I shouldn't expect as much, especially considering I've been here for three years and have a very small readership. And so sometimes I think I should just write the book how I want to, as if I'm the only one who will read it, because it's quite likely that will be the case, and just use it as a cathartic tool to deal with the troubling times I had at college. I hope that, if I can make a good book out of it, something creative and beautiful, it will help me cope because it's still a painful time for me to think about.
In fact, while writing the book, I had to relive a lot of memories and it forced me to examine my actions and behaviors and frequent outbursts and it's really embarrassing now to see how I fell apart so easily and how I still haven't fully recovered, even after all of these years.
I hope to be done with the third part in the next month or so.
But despite being dizzy and general feeling of grossness, I was able to complete the second part of my book. Well, the majority of it. The last chapter took me this past week to do, partly from my fractured concentration and partly because I just wasn't sure what I wanted to convey with that particular chapter. But I was able to squeeze something out and so that's good. I can always go back later and polish it up but I can't keep writing if I'm stuck on that one part so I'm glad I was able to finish it and now I can move on.
I have about twenty-something more chapters to go and the third part will be finished and the first draft of the entire book will be done. Finally. After working on it on and off (mostly off) for years now, it's finally looking like it's coming together.
Then, the rewriting and editing and rereading will start but I hope it won't be as time consuming as writing it all out from scratch. With the material right there in front of me, I should be able to work at a faster pace. I just have to make sure it makes sense, conveys what I'm trying to say, and is entertaining. We'll see how it goes.
I have some concerns regarding my story, though. As we all know, I'm long-winded and I feel it's going to be a long book. I could cut some stuff out but I hesitate to do that because I want to present the full picture to the reader of how everything went down during my time at college. I could shorten it and make it a bit easier to read but it might not be as enjoyable. Then again, it might not be enjoyable to read a 500 page book, especially with people's short attention spans these days.
And what if I'm only good in short bursts? There's only so much alliteration and whiny emo bullcrap one can take before it's not fun to read anymore. I might be able to crank out a decent essay every once in a while but is my writing strong enough to carry an entire book? I'm not so sure.
As much as I would love to be the next Amanda Hocking or J.A. Konrath, I'm not sure it'll happen for me. I shouldn't expect as much, especially considering I've been here for three years and have a very small readership. And so sometimes I think I should just write the book how I want to, as if I'm the only one who will read it, because it's quite likely that will be the case, and just use it as a cathartic tool to deal with the troubling times I had at college. I hope that, if I can make a good book out of it, something creative and beautiful, it will help me cope because it's still a painful time for me to think about.
In fact, while writing the book, I had to relive a lot of memories and it forced me to examine my actions and behaviors and frequent outbursts and it's really embarrassing now to see how I fell apart so easily and how I still haven't fully recovered, even after all of these years.
I hope to be done with the third part in the next month or so.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
book notes #6 and more
I didn't want all of my updates to be about book writing but that's basically all I've been doing and as I'm trying to keep this blog updated, I guess that's what I'll update about. Sorry in advance.
Last month was pretty productive in terms of writing. I had written approximately 57 pages over the course of two years prior to last month. It's not as if those 57 pages were perfect and I worked tirelessly every day to make every word gold. I just wrote for a few weeks and then took a few months off. Obviously, it was getting me nowhere. So, after receiving a proof copy of my first novel, it inspired me to forge ahead with my memoir. And in that month, I wrote another 57 pages. I still have about 200 to go so I'm nowhere near finished but I'm still plugging away at it.
I have to say I feel good about the book so far. As I was looking over my notes, it brought back so many details that had gotten lost in the gutter of my head. Scents, visuals, and even strands of dialogue came back to me as I wrote. Also, I realized how varied the book will be. While it focuses on my time in college, it also addresses a wide variety of issues that I dealt with before I even stepped foot in school and issues that I'm still dealing with today. I think once it's finished it'll give a pretty good picture of who I was as a whole, not just a college student. We've got God and sex and art and mental health and death and eating disorders.
And the best part about it so far is that it's been fun to write. Not only do I feel like I'm working with some good material but it's just been enjoyable to go back and relive those moments. Even the not so good times were worth revisiting because it's been pretty therapeutic overall and has given me a bit more perspective on things.
In other news, I feel like I have completely disconnected myself from the real world. My mind has been filled with writing two books and reading Harry Potter with any spare time I have and I haven't left much mental energy to concentrate on the issues that are slowly dissolving me into a second death. My existence is in shambles and I've just been ignoring it by placing my priorities elsewhere. I hate my job but I've all but given up on finding something else because there is nothing here for me. I hate my body but I'm too lazy to exercise and I'm too depressed to eat healthy because fattening foods make me feel better, no matter how short-lived the feeling may be. It's better than the emptiness. At least that's what I try to tell myself. I know better but I ignore it.
If I had to work in retail, I wish that I could work somewhere a bit more upscale, somewhere where the customers observe a minimum standard of hygiene, like bathing and brushing their teeth. I had one gentleman shuffle his way into my department the other day and as I was processing his transaction, I literally had to hold my breath. The body odor was so strong it was sharp, like it was stabbing my face. Naturally, it took him several minutes to get the change back into his wallet. Her gingerly eased the money in as I began to turn blue and become lightheaded. I actually had to turn around and take a breath before going back in. I don't deserve this.
There are three other coworkers besides myself who have bachelor's degrees. And none of us can find anything better than crappy part-time work with this company. I think it's kind of sad. One's in business, the other in education, the other in social work. I think they still stand a better chance at finding something than I do, at least something relatively nearby. But the fact that they can't find work still makes me feel bad for them. We all spent so much time and money to become educated, to do better for ourselves, and we are all still stuck. And also in student loan debt on top of that.
The lady from the wireless phone company finally called me back the other day. I had actually given up on getting a call back and put it out of my mind so when she called, I was surprised. Obviously, I wasn't going to take it. I had already decided that, especially when my work said they wouldn't let me stay on with them if I took the full-time job. I didn't want to risk leaving something secure to jump into something I wasn't sure would work out. I'm not a daredevil like that.
The funny thing is I wanted them to call me back even though I wasn't going to accept. I just needed to know that they wanted me, that I was good enough. But after I started thinking about it, I realized I was good enough. I rocked that interview so hard and I am darn good at customer service, although I loathe it. I pretty much hate all people but I am awesome at pretending I don't. I realized I didn't need their validation and I was proud of myself for owning that. But, I got the validation anyway so I had to make an awkward phone call back to the lady to explain to her that I was no longer interested in the position. I wondered why it took her so long to call back as she told me it would be two days but instead it was around two weeks. She never gave me an explanation so I'll never know. My paranoid mind thinks she might have hired someone else and they didn't work out? So I was second best. Or maybe she just got busy. I don't know and I don't have the energy to care. It's done.
Plus, she kept calling me Brandon. I hate that. Even during the interview with my application sitting right in her lap, she called me Brandon. People have done that all of my life. When I'm at work, people read my name badge and call me Brandon. Most of my teachers from middle and high school still know me as Brandon. It really makes me feel good about who I am. Thank you.
Last month was pretty productive in terms of writing. I had written approximately 57 pages over the course of two years prior to last month. It's not as if those 57 pages were perfect and I worked tirelessly every day to make every word gold. I just wrote for a few weeks and then took a few months off. Obviously, it was getting me nowhere. So, after receiving a proof copy of my first novel, it inspired me to forge ahead with my memoir. And in that month, I wrote another 57 pages. I still have about 200 to go so I'm nowhere near finished but I'm still plugging away at it.
I have to say I feel good about the book so far. As I was looking over my notes, it brought back so many details that had gotten lost in the gutter of my head. Scents, visuals, and even strands of dialogue came back to me as I wrote. Also, I realized how varied the book will be. While it focuses on my time in college, it also addresses a wide variety of issues that I dealt with before I even stepped foot in school and issues that I'm still dealing with today. I think once it's finished it'll give a pretty good picture of who I was as a whole, not just a college student. We've got God and sex and art and mental health and death and eating disorders.
And the best part about it so far is that it's been fun to write. Not only do I feel like I'm working with some good material but it's just been enjoyable to go back and relive those moments. Even the not so good times were worth revisiting because it's been pretty therapeutic overall and has given me a bit more perspective on things.
In other news, I feel like I have completely disconnected myself from the real world. My mind has been filled with writing two books and reading Harry Potter with any spare time I have and I haven't left much mental energy to concentrate on the issues that are slowly dissolving me into a second death. My existence is in shambles and I've just been ignoring it by placing my priorities elsewhere. I hate my job but I've all but given up on finding something else because there is nothing here for me. I hate my body but I'm too lazy to exercise and I'm too depressed to eat healthy because fattening foods make me feel better, no matter how short-lived the feeling may be. It's better than the emptiness. At least that's what I try to tell myself. I know better but I ignore it.
If I had to work in retail, I wish that I could work somewhere a bit more upscale, somewhere where the customers observe a minimum standard of hygiene, like bathing and brushing their teeth. I had one gentleman shuffle his way into my department the other day and as I was processing his transaction, I literally had to hold my breath. The body odor was so strong it was sharp, like it was stabbing my face. Naturally, it took him several minutes to get the change back into his wallet. Her gingerly eased the money in as I began to turn blue and become lightheaded. I actually had to turn around and take a breath before going back in. I don't deserve this.
There are three other coworkers besides myself who have bachelor's degrees. And none of us can find anything better than crappy part-time work with this company. I think it's kind of sad. One's in business, the other in education, the other in social work. I think they still stand a better chance at finding something than I do, at least something relatively nearby. But the fact that they can't find work still makes me feel bad for them. We all spent so much time and money to become educated, to do better for ourselves, and we are all still stuck. And also in student loan debt on top of that.
The lady from the wireless phone company finally called me back the other day. I had actually given up on getting a call back and put it out of my mind so when she called, I was surprised. Obviously, I wasn't going to take it. I had already decided that, especially when my work said they wouldn't let me stay on with them if I took the full-time job. I didn't want to risk leaving something secure to jump into something I wasn't sure would work out. I'm not a daredevil like that.
The funny thing is I wanted them to call me back even though I wasn't going to accept. I just needed to know that they wanted me, that I was good enough. But after I started thinking about it, I realized I was good enough. I rocked that interview so hard and I am darn good at customer service, although I loathe it. I pretty much hate all people but I am awesome at pretending I don't. I realized I didn't need their validation and I was proud of myself for owning that. But, I got the validation anyway so I had to make an awkward phone call back to the lady to explain to her that I was no longer interested in the position. I wondered why it took her so long to call back as she told me it would be two days but instead it was around two weeks. She never gave me an explanation so I'll never know. My paranoid mind thinks she might have hired someone else and they didn't work out? So I was second best. Or maybe she just got busy. I don't know and I don't have the energy to care. It's done.
Plus, she kept calling me Brandon. I hate that. Even during the interview with my application sitting right in her lap, she called me Brandon. People have done that all of my life. When I'm at work, people read my name badge and call me Brandon. Most of my teachers from middle and high school still know me as Brandon. It really makes me feel good about who I am. Thank you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
